


Over

by SpaceCommunist



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Warning: Suicide Ideation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-05
Updated: 2016-06-05
Packaged: 2018-07-12 12:34:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7103569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpaceCommunist/pseuds/SpaceCommunist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sharkface refuses to stand down.</p>
<p>(A novelized version of what I believe is one of the most tragic events in Red vs Blue. Slight changes in dialogue and events to better suit the story.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Over

_Get up._

Sharkface struggles to roll onto his hands and feet as he hears  _her_ fall down just a few feet away.  _A goddamn DOOR...she must really be struggling for ideas, huh? Pathetic._

_Almost as pathetic as you._

_Get up._

He groans slightly, letting the pain roll through him. What he'd said earlier was true; he had long grown used to pain, both external and internal - the pain dealt by his adversaries, and the pain he always carried with him. Of course, his reinforcement plating - that which stretched out beneath his skin, implanted long ago in the hopes that he may take down these damned "supersoldiers" - it certainly helped him roll with the punches.

Still though - _that damned door_ \- it was a bit much for him to handle all at once. Two steps to the side and he would've been fine, barring a few bruises. But no,  _she_ just had to be creative, didn't she?

Voices drift over from where  _she_ was - one of her friends, and  _him_. They were armed, with their rifles trained on Sharkface.

_Surprise, surprise - they really DO want you dead._

He smirks beneath his helmet, as he winces from pain. He was right after all - they didn't care about him or his friends; they just wanted them all dead.

_And you'll be their last target, if you don't get the hell UP._

Sharkface glances at his left arm, still reeling from his injury. The armour plating was scratched, and his arm felt like it could snap in two at any moment, but deep down he didn't care. He knew he'd recover, he'd be able to get back up, he just needed  _more time...._

_So did they. More time to aim, more time to run, more time to tell each other how much they were loved, to tell YOU how much you were loved. But they got killed, didn't they?_ _All of them gone, while THEY got off scot-free. And you got to live, the only one not worth a damn out of the lot._

_What an insult to their memory, that YOU are their legacy. Is THIS what they would've done? Crawled on the ground like a child? Of course not._

He struggles through his pain now. He can feel the heat of the day, the intensity of the star above sweltering through his suit. He can barely breathe through the fire, through the memories and the pain.

Through the guilt.

_Get up._

"Face it. It's  _over._ "

_Get up._

"You lose."

He chuckles. That  _freak_ over there, she really thought he was out of the fight? That he would just walk away from this, like she wasn't responsible for the deaths of his friends?

"Over...?" he wheezes, feeling some semblance of strength return to him. This hate, this  _loss_ he felt...it was giving him strength, even now. As much as it kept him up at night, it would never be enough to bring him down in the face of his enemies.

"...nah..."

The memories begin flooding back.

"... _no_...."

_Move_.

He begins to crawl forward, inching closer and closer to his adversaries. His pain surges through him like electricity, but his rage, his hate, his mourning -  _that_  is enough to keep him going.

He gives a wry smile, all-too hidden beneath a helmet that wasn't his.

"...you can break me..."

_On your feet._

"... _burn me_..."

_Look forward._

"... _BURY ME ALIVE...!_ "

He stumbles forward, remembering the day that everything went to hell. The day they lost their job, and almost lost their friends.

_They were lost anyways._

_And you weren't there to save them._

He slips, and falls forward, only just managing to catch himself on the ground below. His internal voice, saying all manner of terrible things...it was almost too much for him right now. But he had to ignore it, focus on  _her..._

_She didn't even kill the ones closest to you. You're just trying to replace the real murderers with a figurehead, a scapegoat. You coward._

The sunlight seems to grow stronger with every second, even now as he lays on the ground. He can't breathe anymore...he can't breathe...

...they needed to see him. See the mark she and her "friends" had left on his family.

He places a free hand on the helmet and releases it, throwing it aside as he breathes in cool air for the first time in what feels like years. His breathing returns to normal, if only for the moment.

He rolls over from his side onto his free hand, taking in the air of the city. If he weren't lying before his adversaries, he might have had a brief moment of calm and peace.

He takes a breath.

"As long...as I'm still breathing, it will  _never be over_..."

He starts to crawl again, but stops as he feels a new pain in his legs. He takes a moment to look up straight ahead, let  _her_ and  _him_ look at his face, marred from years of strife and abandonment - and of course, the fire.

They don't flinch. Not even  _her._

_They want you dead, like the rest of them._

_You'll never see them again._

_You'll just be running forever after someone you can't beat, with scars and wounds that won't heal, because you're too weak to heal from her attacks._

_You'll forever be a monster, a phantom of the past._

_Freak._

He winces again, not at the pain but at the memory. Somewhere, deep down in whatever held a semblance to a soul, he found truth in those thoughts.

_You've lost everything, what little you had to begin with._

_You're never going to see them again._

_They would hate you for your failures._

_Just give up._

A small tear escapes his blackened eye. This truth holds firmly in his heart. He can feel it deep down, like a weed that refuses to be killed - a cancer that spreads without avail.

But his spirit will  _not_ be broken.  _Not again._

"...I will hunt you...I will  _burn_ you..."

He feels one final resurgence of strength in his broken body - whether it was his reinforcement plating, his natural stamina, or his spirit that did the trick, he could not tell. He swerves up.

"...as long as I'M ALIVE..."

He grimaces at the Freelancers and their ally. The pain rolling all over his body comes to a head - figuratively and literally. His scarred visage becomes twisted with the rage that had built up within him for so long. He could scream, in agony and despair and futility and hatred.

"...you're all as good, as DEAD!"

He feels the adrenaline within him begin to slow. This was his last stand - he already knew it.

But did  _they_ know it?

They stood there, stupidly, glancing at one another. The two armed ones - the ally, and  _him_ \- they lowered their rifles, giving a look to one another. Was this confusion? Was this agitation? Or were they speaking quietly, so softly that his ears couldn't hear it?

But all the same, they just stood there.

_They did NOTHING._

_Just like you._

_Fool._

_Coward._

_Weak._

_Idiot._

_FREAK._

The two look back at him and aim their rifles.

And for a split second, just before it happened, he knows he was right about them.

They open fire.

He feels the volley of gunfire, each bullet hit his chest with a fury he hadn't felt before. It was almost like the building collapsing again - only at smaller, more precise points of his body.

The pain, surprisingly, isn't as bad as he thought it would be.

He falls over, mortally wounded. He watches the blood leak out of him. He can feel his reinforcement plating struggling to adapt to these wounds, to try and find some way to repair his body. He has a feeling that, this time, it won't work.

He clutches at his chest, blood getting smeared across his armour's chestpiece. He can hear that old broken AI up ahead, jeering at him. The words do not reach his ears, but he knows the tone all too well. It's a tone of laughter, of mockery.

They would not miss him.

_Just like everyone else._

And then, as  _he_ and their ally begin to chat with someone over radio, he sees  _her_ step above him, and look at what she has caused.

He twists his mouth into a smile, and begins to speak. This surprises him, as he could have sworn he had been hit in the lungs.

"Heh...I was right, then, in the end...you don't care...you never will...you and your friends are just killers...that's what you'll always be..."

He begins to hack up blood, while  _she_ kneels down and puts a hand on his shoulder. He's too weak to remove it.

"You'll always be what I've always been...a  _freak_...."

She takes off her helmet. He looks at her face, for the first time in his life.

He is surprised at her attractiveness. Red hair, green eyes...and an expression of the utmost grief.

"No, you're not a freak," she says, tears forming at the edge of her eyes.

Even in his last moments, he was taken aback. Was she...hurt by this? Did she truly feel remorse? Or was it something else...?

"...you're just what _I've_ always been...lost."

The AI reappears, and begins to speak to his host. The Freelancer shuts her eyes and holds a hand up, as if holding back something. The AI takes a moment, glances down at him, and then flashes away, speaking to the ones with the rifles.

She reopens her eyes, and one of her tears falls on his scarred face.

"...please, tell your friends...tell them I'm sorry."

She wraps her hand around his back, and...gives him a hug.

A hug.

It had been so long since he'd been hugged. So long...the only ones who had ever hugged him in the past were his friends, in a warm embrace of friendship....

He...doesn't know if he could snap her neck, or stab her in the throat, or even burn her as bad as he had been.

He doesn't know anything, but to wrap an arm around her and welcome her embrace.

She holds him there, for a moment. He feels a slight tremble and the softest of whimpers as the side of her head laid against his scarred face. As odd as it is, he can't tell which one was being comforted.

Perhaps, in some strange way, it's both of them.

She lets go, and stands up - his blood smeared across her armour. He can see a little redness behind her eyes, but the tears are already gone. She leans down, grabs her helmet, and gives one last look at him - a look a child gives to a father as he leaves for war.

And just like that, she turns away and leaves.

She's gone.

The three ahead seem to start arguing over something, but Sharkface doesn't care. He feels a warmth - not the sunlight, not the memory of fire - but a deep warmth within him. Was this comfort? Or was this just his body, entering shock? He can't tell, and doesn't give a damn either way.

For him, this was the warmth of kinship - that same kinship he found among his friends so, so long ago....

More arguing, and then a ship arrives. More friends...somehow, he gets the feeling that these friends are real family and not just partners in crime.

It doesn't matter now. Nothing matters now, for he knows the end is here.

_Go after them._

His voice inside comes back up. He had thought it gone.

_Prove them wrong. Prove them to be killers, just like you should have from the beginning._

_Show them what it means to be hated._

_To be scarred and scared and vengeful._

_To be a FREAK._

Just before he thinks his calm is broken, he hears a new voice - several, all at once, faint but strong.

_Sleep._

It isn't his own voice. It was  _theirs_.

_Sleep now._

All of his family, together in unison.

_You can rest now._

He begins to relax now, as his friends return to him.

_Don't worry about the nightmare anymore, Terrance._

His old name...in any other circumstance he'd cringe, but here it's like a mother's lullaby to her child.

He closes his eyes, briefly feeling a new wave of heat wash over him.

_It's over._


End file.
